Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, Snapchat, Quora, the list goes on. 11 out of 10 people I know are active on some popular social network.
Do you know what all these people have in common?
The hunger for fame.
Well, that is sure to not go well with many if the people out there. Most of them don’t crave the attention, they say. Most of them had a time. Most of us have had a moment, when you get a like count higher than your previous record, and the feeling is just bliss. This continues until the followers run into thousands followed by the like count. Likes, upvotes, friends, followers; your virtual army.
But this measure of fame, does it become a bane to the others? The ones who still live with a meagre amount of likes and followers. Once one of friends created an Instagram account with the sole objective of having a thousand followers. Sounds funny, but he was damn too serious and emotional about it. He puts up average content but hasn’t been able to make the break yet.
I personally frustrated when I look at the people who use the quickest ways to gain fame, sleaze being the worst. But then its being the green-eyed monster or the ever jealous, nosy neighbor; it’s their life and they made it. Kudos. Though it is a disappointment to all the decent folk who work hard to get this fruits of success from the audience.
But on a serious note, aren’t we addicted to this rat race for fame?
Is being white a privilege?
Probably not. But still people root for a fairer world.
There have been celebrities standing upto this issue in the previous weeks. Popular fairness cream advertisements show a girl who was dull and dusky turning into a social butterfly and a complete success, thanks to the whitening effect of these magical concoctions. You seriously think dusky people achieving things is pure luck?
And it is not just women who are affected by the dusky skin syndrome. Men too are supposed to be white, and of course no using women’s fairness creams because ‘they don’t bring the desired effect on male skin’.
I am being particularly choosy when using the word dusky instead of black. Apart from not-being-racist reasons, the color black has often been linked to dark and evil causes. For the same reason, you aren’t allowed to buy a black dress or anything as they are particularly considered inauspicious. The only time perhaps the color is desired is when you start to age, for hair staying black means you got something in you.
I have heard stories about people getting rejected because their skin color is too dark. And yet, people outside the country seem to admire this generous gifts of melanin; they strive to get that perfect tan.
This thing will fade within a couple of weeks more, and the world will again go crazy over white skin again. Till then let’s revel ourselves in some other gossip.
It has been long ago that I have written something. I don’t know if someone has been watching out for any post of mine. If someone does, thanks a lot and I hope to be able to update regularly.
I’ve been thinking a lot on what I should write. When I started the blog, I thought that I had much to share with the world. The world which is a more scarier place now.
Crimes, calamities and differences plague most parts of our planet of residence. And here I am wondering where all of this is leading us to. The child inside opines to see all of this just as a part of the story, although what it plans to see ahead is pure fantasy.
Sometimes I get that writer’s block. But the determination to write something feels lost long ago. There is a sea of content within; there is also great confusion, as to how the content can be put into words, careful as to not offend anyone. When I see people writing, I am in awe. Their ability to shape their thoughts into beautiful sentences are remarkable. Be it poems, or just random scribbles, they have their own value.
Now, until I get a good subject to comment on, I suppose it would be great to interact with the bloggers out here. Atleast, I might make a friend.
So what do you love to write about?
And what inspires you?
Like the day makes way for the night,
the way the seasons seamlessly transition into the next,
Like hate transforming into love,
midnight is among the best moments of life,
when most of the ideas flash into my mind.
Halfway between sleep and wakefulness,
the womb of thought at its fertile best.
Whilst I lie waiting for sleep to strike,
the mind comes up with its greatest creations.
Maybe this is my blessing,
To know how dreams are made up.
P.S. : This is probably my first poem. Suggestions and comments welcome.
Stemming deep from within, a desire to know what you are. Trapped within a soul, who am I?
People seem fake. Excelling at their assigned roles. Why does it all seem like a play all of a sudden?
The achievements, moments of bliss all seem to have withered away. Just like vapor on a cold windshield. When all the praises showered upon feel like flattery, none of them real.
When you look back and realize what you have achieved, only to see there is nothing. What have you been doing all these years?
Depressed? No. High? No. Then what makes you all philosophical all of a sudden? The voices around rise in chorus. The society maybe. Or my conscience.
The blog is probably dead, so are ideas. What about me? I live. Merely exist, to be precise.
Questions, questions. Wait, isn’t that what makes us different? Life. No matter how much you run away from her, she always finds a way to enchant you again. Interesting.
Wake up! You have another birth anniversary coming. Live every moment. Leave a mark. A good one. Before the next one comes up.
Happy Birthday you idiot!
He was running out of time. Holding onto her he ran as fast as he could.
‘What if all of this is unreal?’, she asked, her face quite disturbed. ‘No, this has to be real. This thing has the power to change our lives’, he mumbled trembling, the answer hardly satisfying her curious mind.
He looked back to reassure her when he saw her face undergo metamorphosis.
Her face was terrifying. Her pretty doe eyes now looked fierce reflecting anger. Her face had developed odd looking bumps, somewhat like a dozen big pimples and the skin had turned a dull shade of dark green, sharp canines poking out of her mouth. He slowed down but she kept her pace crashing into the wall ahead, turning into a cloud of smoke, quick to disappear.
He screeched into a stop, almost losing his balance. He stood there, confused . Beads of sweat began to flow down his face while he tried to make sense of everything that happened in the past hour.
Cupid hit us both with the same arrow; he split it.
Her father used two bullets.